by Kerri Sharpe
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
O – Nuala Deuel
Life Boat – Virginia St George
Doctor’s Orders – Jessica Donnelly
Pumps – Monica Belle
Lovely Cricket – Jan Bolton
Kissing the Gunner’s Daughter – Fiona Locke
Copyright
About the Book
Emma is a doctor who takes control of a new patient – a man who used to control her life …
Read the story of a curious girl with a passion for petrol …
Inga is an air hostess with a longing for designer toys …
Lauren discovers the forbidden on a passenger liner …
Jason’s Mom has got it going on …
Emily steals an identity to be the only girl on a warship …
Indulgent, sensual, taboo, outrageous and always, always erotic, Black Lace short stories are the best in modern sexy fiction. Fun, irreverent and deliciously decadent, this arousing little anthology of our erotica is a showcase of the diversity and imagination of modern women’s erotic desires. So pick me up and dip into the most entertaining erotic fiction around.
Quickies – 1
A Black Lace erotic short-story collection
O Nuala Deuel
INGA LOEB WAS single because she wanted to be that way. She had no shortage of potential suitors, but her independence meant more to her than any number of proposals, any number of velvet boxes from Alexandrov; vows of love and fidelity tumbled over and away from her, as ephemeral as the windstream across an aeroplane’s wings.
Inga was an air stewardess; she worked exclusively for a Saudi Arabian businessman with his own Lear jet. It was just one more reason she could offer to the pack of randy dogs that were chasing her tail. I can’t have a boyfriend, she’d say. I’m on call twenty-four hours a day. At any moment I might be expected to drop everything and fly out to Europe, to South Africa, to the States. Her boss, known to everybody as Ali – to recite his entire name would take a good fifteen seconds – was a hard taskmaster, but extremely fair. He smiled at Inga often, and chatted to her when he wasn’t working on his laptop, or calling clients from 40,000 feet in the air. It was important to her to know that she was more to him than some kind of drink-fetching robot. He asked her opinion on various matters. He confided in her. Sometimes her duties extended to errands that took place on the ground: purchasing gifts for special clients, checking out hotel facilities for all-day conventions, arranging dinners at short notice at elite restaurants. She had a certain amount of persuasive power, and knew that these gifts were more likely to work if she could utilise them in person. She was an attractive young woman, with glittering green eyes and an hourglass figure that she liked to squeeze into sheer black dresses and high heels, or, when she was relaxing, expensive scuffed leather trousers and thin clingy tops. She turned heads, and she often made them nod too, whenever she asked for something to be done. She was not used to rejection.
For such an inconvenience, she was paid handsomely. She enjoyed a top-end five-figure salary with regular, generous bonuses, and owned a large studio flat in Bayswater and a modest terraced house in Devon, which she decamped to at every opportunity. She had a good circle of friends and an interest in photography, world cinema and jazz.
She was also addicted to online shopping for sex toys.
Inga loved the anonymity of such shopping. She loved too the little routines she had developed on the nights she decided to settle down for some retail therapy with the mouse and the Mastercard. There was always a hot bath first, and a large glass of Rioja. The sash window she slid open as wide as it would go. Miles or Bird or Dizzy on the stereo. Candles. She immersed herself in the hot scented water and closed her eyes to this blanket sensual infill. When the glass of wine was finished, she would feel a little thick, a little woolly in the head, a sensation echoed in the pit of her stomach. Her mind would be turning to silicone and steel, to leather and lubricants. Her long hair fanning out in the water, washing up on the floating bounty of her breasts.
Tonight, on the eve of her thirtieth birthday, she reached for a bar of lavender soap and ran it along the gulleys at the side of her body, where the flesh swept down to the pout of her pudenda; the many nerves bunched beneath her flesh here singing as they awoke to her intent. She pulled out the bath plug and felt the water lowering. Her weight drew her down as the bath emptied. Her pubis broke free of the surface, like an exotic sea creature caught out by the tide. She ran the soap over the hair there, enjoying the lather as it thickened, feeling the cream slither into the frills of her labia. She squeezed her thighs together, and the sight of her long limber muscles becoming defined under her skin, enhanced by the oily light, turned her on more than she expected. She was sleek. She was a thoroughbred. More of her body became exposed as the water gurgled away. The deep curve of her waist. The nub of her belly button. Her breasts settled back against her ribcage proud and perfect, like something cast by a sculptor eager to capture her in her moment of glory. She watched her breasts shudder as she worked the soap against her cleft, creating so many suds now that it was difficult to keep a grip on the bar. The sound of the soap as it sucked and squelched into her quim was deliciously rude. The last of the water gathered in an eddy at the black O of the plug hole and she watched it spin wildly away. She reached down to the low table by the bath and swept up a brightly coloured configuration of moulded jelly and plastic. She flicked a switch and the head of its seven-inch shaft rotated. A separate, bifurcated offshoot vibrated alarmingly. She thrust the vibrator into her pussy, as deep as she could get it, and positioned the buzzing clitoral arouser against her hot little flood button.
Fifteen pounds from www.honeypot.com. A bargain.
She came before she could find a rhythm to move against, ploughing the firm silcone into her with fervid abandon, imagining a man crushing her against the enamel surface of the bath, his own senses lost to the pooling of heat that gathered at the tip of his monumental cock. The vibrations were deep and intense. They always produced a different kind of orgasm to the one she experienced with her fingers. It was as if every single nerve ending was being attended to at once by the little machine. It was mind-blowing. Quite often she had a headache after playing with one of her toys; they were that thorough with her. Yet, as had happened now in the empty bath, her skin puckering as she cooled, she had not been able to reach her climax without thinking of real meat pinning her down. Her toys were all about preparation; they couldn’t deliver the coup de grâce. Ultimately, despite their sophistication and their lifelike appearance, it was the lack of humanity that failed her. The sound was too mechanised; the smell too synthetic. She loved the rhythm of sex, the measured slap of flesh. It was like the beat of the drums in jazz, it created the spaces within which the music happened. But she could never find the toy she needed to replicate that. And no matter how hard she worked them, there was never the reciprocal sound of a lover losing control: all of these things were what drew an orgasm from her. It wasn’t all about direct clitoral stimulation.
Still, she loved the naughtiness of her machines. There was a thrill in using something that was custom-made for the vagina, and for pleasure. Hanging around a businessman for as long as she had, she couldn’t help thinking that there was a gap in the market, but she couldn’t imagine how it might be filled. All she could do was keep trawling the websites until that border between the actual and the pretend was smudged to the point where it no longer became something worth considering. Tonight she would find herself a toy worthy of a woman entering her fourth decade. She wanted the best there was, and she would not call a halt until she had found it.
I
nga rose shakily to her feet and pressed her fingers lightly against her mons. A residual tremor existed there. She was still excited and by the time she had reached her bedroom and jiggled the mouse to chase away the screensaver, knew that she was going to have to trawl the web one-handed. But not to some grinding background of white noise. She dumped the vibrator in her underwear drawer and reached for the beautiful, thick twelve-inch glass dildo she had bought in Amsterdam the previous summer. It didn’t gyrate, it didn’t throb, and it had a tendency to feel a little chilly, but that was what she craved right now. She sat naked on the office chair in front of the Apple Mac, her legs spread, cunt tilted towards the screen, sliding the end of the dildo all over her fizzing, swollen pussy lips.
She clicked through her bookmarked favourites, enjoying the gentle slip and slide of the tool as she slithered it tenderly across her opening, not yet wanting to fuck herself into oblivion. The filed list of sites that she had previously patronised seemed suddenly too pedestrian; she wondered if she had taken her proclivity too far and become jaded: nothing on the pages aroused her as it once had.
She desultorily ordered some strap-ons because she liked the colours and the quality harnesses. She bought some large steel cock rings of various diameters and a few of the lifelike vaginas, just for fun. But none of it was connecting with that little zone in the pit of her stomach, the place that was like some secret internal mouth forever locked in an O of surprise and arousal.
She grew bored of her usual haunts and typed a few key words into the search bar. Lifelike, sex toys, ultimate, realistic. She realised that what she was actually looking for was a man as soon as she hit the return key, but by then she was too engrossed by the jags of pleasure ramping through her clit to consider what this meant. She spread her legs even wider and eased the bulbous head of the glass into her. The shaft of the dildo was a beautifully shaped series of concentric circles, like thick ribs, and she felt each one as she swallowed the fat glass, inch by inch. Her pussy lips rippled around the girth of the dildo. She felt filled up, stretched. The tip nudged up against her cervix and a low moan shifted wetly around the base of her throat. She began to slowly pump the glass cock in and out of her drooling quim as the search results came back. In a daze, feeling her control dwindle, she glanced down the familiar list of names, most of the links coloured red to indicate she had visited them before. There was one website that had escaped her attention, which surprised her:
www.o.com.
It must be new. She clicked on it, imagining the dark eyes of her imperious ghost lover peering intently into her own as she bore down on the orgasm waiting to be hatched inside her.
David.
She felt herself tip over that invisible edge and had to put out her hand to steady herself as the legs of the chair she was sitting on skidded back away from the table. Her release was a like series of circles that rippled away from that tight little nub of pleasure at the top of her cunt. Whenever she felt her orgasm, she thought of the old RKO sting that appeared before movies, of radio signals buzzing from a mast on top of the world. She imagined the peristaltic spasm of a ring of muscles desperate to squeeze the ecstasy from her body because it couldn’t hope to stay intact if they remained behind.
She came back, as she always did, despite the conviction that each climax sent her further away from herself. Reality poured into the gaps of her in the shape of her credit card, the mouse, the chirrup of her computer as it processed any number of little unseen tasks.
‘Hi, Dave,’ she said, thickly. Her heartbeat felt visible in the skin of her chest. She was exhausted and energised at the same time. The homepage of www.o.com contained nothing more than a picture of a male sex doll that was so lifelike she thought it might turn to her and tip her a wink at any moment. Short hair, a cute mouth, chocolate-brown eyes. His body was a pale caramel colour, his prick tumbling halfway down his thigh, soft, but with a heavy weight to it. It had real presence: it drew the eye. Next to the picture, in acid pink lettering, were the words:
Meet Dave. A six-foot tall hunk of hard muscle and good loving. Made with the highest quality materials. Watch his erection grow as you caress him. Realistic thrusting action. Realistic ejaculations. Awesome sucking and tonguing programmes. Listen to him tell you how great you were afterwards. A stunning piece of equipment, the ultimate sex toy for the discerning woman. Buy now.
How could she not? Despite its four-figure price tag, it was a piece of kit that she must not ignore.
She quickly entered her details and punched the transaction processing key. A few seconds later, a screen appeared thanking her for her order and informing her that her purchase would be with her in three working days. She drained her glass of Rioja and swept back to the bathroom feeling suddenly revitalised, somehow like a teenager again. As she showered away the sticky residue of her climax, she imagined it was because, in a way, she had set up a date. It was like being sixteen again, at college, waiting impatiently for the Friday night and a movie with the class Adonis. Three days was an impossible time to wait. She felt herself shiver in anticipation. Plenty of time to pamper herself. To make the treat something more than it was.
She went out for a walk.
The streets around her home were glossy with long-departed rain. The sodium lights were caught in the sheen-like holes punched in the skin of the Earth, allowing glimpses of wondrous lands beneath. These merged with the smeared windows of countless flats rising to her right. She had been walking for so long she was unsure of where she had arrived at. The windows shivered with pulses of TV colour. Some of the glass was shrouded by net curtains. Others allowed an unhindered view of the rooms inside. She wondered about the people sitting in them. How many of them were about to have sex, or had just finished? How many were in the middle of the act right now? She remembered teenage boyfriends honey fucking her on parents’ sofas in front of the television, for hours sometimes, once the frenzy of the first few occasions had burnt itself out. Lovemaking changed, she suddenly realised, as you grew older. You knew how to fine-tune. You knew exactly what you wanted, and how to extract the sensation you craved. There was no longer any hit and miss, any wild abandon. Control was what gave adult sex its frisson, but it was also what stripped it of its magic too.
As if summoning some evidence to the contrary, she turned her head to catch sight of a couple in a kitchen, fucking in the buttery light from an open refrigerator. He had her against the worktop, thrusting into her as her hands slid against the MDF, her eyes closed, her breasts juddering, the nipples proscribing crazed parabolas over their soft heavy background. The couple’s domestic setting, the easy knowledge they had of each other’s naked body, the way he peppered her chest, throat and face with kisses instructed her that her beliefs were flawed. There was surprise on the woman’s face. And the thrill of it was there too; she had been ambushed by him. A smile surfaced, turning into the frown of sweet excruciation, breaking into a smile again as she reached the limit of feeling. She opened her eyes and fixed Inga to the spot. She hugged her man close to her and Inga felt the acres of cold night sky pile in on her. She had never felt so separate, so isolated. At home she had hundreds of pounds of diversion.
By the time she arrived back at her flat, she was so despondent that she could not bring herself to get undressed. She dropped to her bed as the clock on her computer softly chimed the hour. Midnight. Now she was thirty.
Inga awoke to a sound like a flock of birds. She experienced a moment of depression when she saw that she was still dressed in the previous night’s clothes. A couple of jelly dongs stood to attention on her bookcase next to a tube of self-heating lube and a pair of padded nipple clamps. A day of glorified wanking lay ahead. She could have anything she wanted, from the slimmest, stubbiest four-incher to the mammoth eighteen-inch pole vault that she needed to take muscle relaxants for. The thought of all that impersonal, meatless meat exhausted her before she’d even flicked a switch.
I need a holiday, she thought, at the same time un
derstanding that she didn’t know what she wanted; yet more, that she did, but she couldn’t put a face to it.
She traipsed downstairs to the source of that avian sound: a stack of birthday cards on the welcome mat. The sight of so many tributes from friends cheered her and she spent the next quarter of an hour tearing into them. A cup of raspberry leaf tea and a bagel later and she felt more sanguine about her position. Everyone went through a phase of self-doubt. Everyone who masturbated had to swallow a little guilt, a little self-loathing, however misplaced.
She cheered herself up further by remembered friends from college who had been brazen in their enjoyment of themselves: Anna who would always play Madonna’s ‘Justify My Love’ to indicate to others that they must not enter her bedroom for any reason; Kim, who loved to come on all fours, using all of her fingers, rilling them across her vulva like an anemone sifting the sea for titbits; Madeleine, the French exchange student who greased her mons up with groundnut oil and climaxed by squeezing her thigh muscles together with such skill and precision she could manipulate her clitoris while her hands dealt with the hyper-sensitive flesh of her nipples.
Those times had been good for her not only because she had a steady stream of friends on tap, but they helped to open and close certain doors in her life. She could remember kissing Madeleine on the doorstep at midnight, summer clinging to the blue-black sky, their faces so damp with perspiration they had grown bored of wiping it clear and had let it come. She had tasted of salt and apples. The kiss had been exciting because it was unexpected. It was the first time she had drunk chilled Beaujolais, or eaten fruitcake with Wensleydale cheese. It shouldn’t work, but it did. Was that brief flirtation with lesbianism – a kiss, a breast’s tip in her fingers, a nervous, trembling thigh pressed between her own – the reason she had not linked up with anyone now? Despite her confidence, the hunger to be a success in her work, was she essentially someone who didn’t know anything?